The Barry Chronicles #2

"The Dog Screamer"

(Note to readers: Barry was introduced in the hub titled “The Day I Knew Barry Was Really Dumb, Part 13.” Reading it will enhance your enjoyment of this installment of The Barry Chronicles.)

Perhaps you’ve heard of a “dog whisperer” before. Barry, my extremely challenged dachshund, had turned me into a “dog screamer.” He had become extremely troublesome of late, seemingly urinating everywhere throughout the house, like leaky plumbing. Sometimes he didn’t even stop to pee, he just kept walking and left a liquid trail. I was tense and just a tad angry with Barry.

One morning, he came down to my basement office while I was working. He lifted his leg and casually whizzed like a racehorse on the carpet right in front of me. I was livid. Barry gazed up at me leisurely, yawned, and rolled over on his back to take his well-earned beating. I obliged him by throttling his throat – choking is a little too strong of a term – and yelling, “Stop pissing all over the *$%#@! House, you stupid dog.” (Illustration of incident banned by Hubpages! And you would have loved it.)

Since Barry was being such a severe nuisance, I had placed some ads online to see if anyone would take the world’s stupidest dog off my hands. In my ad, I took some liberties, admittedly. I stretched the truth somewhat. The ad read:

LOVABLE DOG NEEDS GOOD HOME.

DOESN’T EAT MUCH. PLAYFUL.

Shortly thereafter, a mom and her teenaged son from a nearby posh suburb renowned for its snobbery (the town had banned aluminum siding on homes) came to have a look-see at Barry. I had spent several hours trying to prepare him for this meeting.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I said. “And definitely don’t pee on the visitors. Act like you have some sense.” Barry looked at me with his heavily inbred eyes and an utterly vacant expression. He was clearly baffled by my instructions. He was panting merely sitting still, such was his unseemly girth.

As our visitors pulled into the driveway, I nervously opened the door and brought Barry outside. I thought it best if we took the initiative, hoping all the while Barry wouldn’t be….himself.

To my amazement, the woman said, “Oh, what a cute dog!” I raised an eyebrow. Even Barry seemed skeptical of her assessment. “Don’t burp, don’t fart, don’t yawn with your bad breath,” I thought and crossed my fingers.

“Here’s the leash. You can walk him around the block to get to know him better,” I said, fearing the worst. “If he won’t move, you have to drag him.”

Ten minutes later, the mother and her son returned with a very forlorned Barry, his tongue hanging out in exhaustion. “Other than going to the bathroom a lot, he seems like a nice dog,” said mom.

“Oh, yes,” I concurred. “Very nice. An enjoyable companion.” I recalled nearly strangling Barry earlier in the day down in the basement. How I hoped these people would take him far away to suburbia.

“Is he a good dog,” the mom asked.

“Very good. Loyal. Obedient,” I heard myself say.

“But he smells a little,” she added, stating the obvious. Barry smelled like a cheese shed. He stunk bad.

“I forgot to give him his bath today.” The lady smiled. I had never bathed Barry in his life. The notion of scouring this rubbery orange mess was preposterous.

“And he’s free!” I added, trying to seal the deal. “No charge whatsoever.” The son smiled.

And thus it came to be that I was free of Barry…or so I thought. As he was being driven away, Barry peered out of car’s side window, wondering what fate awaited him next.